The First Rule
by Taciyet
Summary: The first rule of going on the run is don't run, walk. Running was fear. Desperation. Committal... But a slower pace, was just that. Slower. Easier for anyone pursuing to overtake her. Anyone not fooled that she was not running. Never had it occurred to her that it was something one had to deal with when attempting to break ties..(Natasha-centric,Gen,Oneshot)[cross-posted from Ao3]


[-cross-posted from Ao3-]

* * *

The first rule of going on the run is _don't_ run _,_ walk. Running showed fear. Fear was for prey. Prey could be scented.

Walking was casual. Walking didn't show urgency. Adrenaline. Lack thereof drew no attention.

Walking held an air of dominance. Of control. Slower pace allowed for clearly analyzing. Smooth reactions.

Hunters do hunt. They don't look back.

If you are matching their pace, showing no fear, they do not see you as prey. If they overlook you, dismiss you, they don't give you a second glance.

But a slower pace, was just that. Slower. Easier for anyone pursuing to overtake her.

Anyone not fooled that she was _not_ running.

Always she had thought her only worry in this regard, were enemies she somehow failed to evade or otherwise.

Never had it occurred to her that it was something one had to deal with when attempting to break ties.

Though when she thought of it, she'd never really felt the need. She'd only ever really had Clint. There was no need to run from their bond. Come what may, they had always been together in the field more often than not. Their lives _were_ SHIELD. There wasn't much chance to put Clint in much more danger by being associated with her.

But the others... Even though ever since New York, the "Avengers" had been called on the various missions that called for more than just standard agents, sometimes together as a team, some times only one or two of them... They still had lives, outside of SHIELD.

They were still... Knew who they were, without SHIELD. Without government leashes, without secrets and lies.

She was loathe to admit that she clung to Steve. When Clint wasn't around, Clint, who already knew all the dark shades that were the tattered edges of her past, of her life. When he wasn't around, and not even the reminding pendant hung around her neck could chase away the darkness, Steve was her anchor. Whether he knew it or not, he was.

Every time she sat and thought even remotely deeply on that, it always drew a breath of a laugh. Captain America, the KGB Black Widow Natalia Alianovna Romanoff's anchor.

It also brought her to concern.

Deeply.

That she had let their friendship get this far, this deep. This relevant. Natasha couldn't help but to feel...irresponsible. Selfish.

Her friendship to _any_ of them. Clint, Clint could handle it. As said, he'd long since broken down her barriers. Or rather, had coaxed them away, had drawn Natasha out from the Black Widow. He knew of her past. At least the parts that SHIELD knew, and the parts that she'd chosen to show. And still more parts she was forced to reveal when some of her skeletons had decided to rise and haunt her. The archer had even outright said on more than one occasion to her that there was no turning back on him.

Thor, Thor was big and loud when of a light heart, with a walk that could match his talk. To this day, she still wasn't completely certain that Thor and the other Asgardians for that matter weren't invulnerable to bullets, with or without their armor. But from her understanding, Asgardians could still be killed, superhuman or not. No amount of stories or mentions of otherworldly battles or hunts could convince her otherwise, or even comfort her or her trepidations.

Steve was the same in terms of mortality, though she didn't think the serum would get him anywhere near the thousand years of life mark the demigod was far beyond. If anything, the near deaths just reinforced it. Even without them, even without having seen the Red Room try to experiment with it, she was almost certain that the serum alone couldn't rival an Asgardian's durability, at least in terms of mortal peril.

Tony was, as he liked to amicably gripe after missions with Steve often chewing him out, was just "a man in a can." He could hide behind his money all he wanted, but in terms of being a mark, look where that had gotten him with Obediah. _Already._ You didn't get to where Tony was without making some enemies. Without getting on someone's radar for kidnappings such as the one he endured.

Former CEO of former maker and seller of weapons of mass destruction company. The prince of another world. America's banner and icon hero.

None of them were safe.

And Bruce, she thought as she exited the elevator onto his floor. Bruce just wanted to be left alone.

Natasha laughed lightly at the thought coinciding with her arrival.

Bruce's floor was centered with a small fountain pond. Smooth falls of crystalline water gliding quietly over mounds of stone into the small pool framed with weathered stones. Natasha almost didn't even have to ask to know it was Tony's idea. The man had probably meant it as a joke. But the joke was on him, as, assuming from its persisting presence, Dr. Banner seemed to like it enough to keep it around.

Natasha wondered as she padded into the room, how long Bruce's accidental rendition of the serum would or could keep him alive. It was clear practically nothing could kill him. Not as long as the Other Guy was around to show up at any moment to protect him. Even from himself.

Bruce just didn't want to hurt anyone.

The redhead felt the twinge of guilt in her stomach bringing her back to her original thought process. Or rather, dragging her back into the mire. Nothing made her feel any better about how close she had gotten to any of them.

She was careful not to startle Bruce. Making as much noise as possible this time, within reason of not edging into the rude or obnoxious category. The woman was sure he could handle it even if she did surprise him. But she still bothered to defer from her normal movements. If only to be amused by the chuckle he would sometimes give, acknowledging the Black Widow's efforts to not accidentally sneak up on him as she often did to the others.

Tony sometimes liked to try and provoke a shift just because. He was convinced that Bruce could control the Hulk already, or Hulk could control himself, however it worked. And if not, then "Practice makes perfect." Stark had said.

She and Steve seemed the only one's concerned with keeping Bruce from having to shift, as Clint and Thor were indifferent. She recalled once in the rubble of an illegal trafficking scheme, the prince and the Hulk getting into a wrestling match. Seemingly just because. The normally mostly composed demigod laughing hard during the whole ridiculous thing.

"How often do you meditate long? You always seem to be doing it when I get here."

Bruce smiled lightly, though didn't open his eyes. Or move.

"Never really thought about it. Just kind of do it."

"Hm," her voice dismisses warmly. She smooths out her yoga mat next to him.

Natasha herself wasn't certain that Bruce could control the Hulk. At least not consistently. His reluctance to change just reinforced this. By now she had seen he and Stark engaged in three or four arguments personally. One of their most heated, about this very subject. Tony was insisting he change so that they could better understand the Other Guy for the suit feature they were working on.

Of course, one could never be sure from snap assessment if they had a genuine exchange stemming from an equally genuine concern going, or if they were running on the steam of yet another of their many sleepless fourty-eight hour lab binges, and arguing about where one left an Allen wrench that the other preferred in a different spot again.

Seeing that they still had a few minutes left before their yoga program starts on the muted TV, she settles on her mat and into a meditative position too.

The trick is to not think. In order to do that, you focus on and think only about your breathing. Inhale. Exhale. In. Out. This way, your loudest thoughts, emotions, are silenced. Forgotten. At least, for the peace of some time. In. Out. They might not all fall silent. But enough of them that you may feel a sense of calm.

Calm is a place from which clearer judgment can be made. Situations may be better looked upo-

"Natasha..."

"Hm?" She hums in response.

"...Do you meditate and do yoga with me so that you aren't afraid of me and the other guy?"

Her mind slows to a pause. Green eyes open to find brown eyes meeting them, and she feels it. Her facade slipping to placid. Calm, passive, naturally neutral. But underlyingly defensive, but a chip from showing such.

"It's not important, I know Steve has me practice with the team every so often and you're there for those, so forgive me if I'm prying or being rude or, direct. I was just curious."

Natasha chips a half smile into the cool that has become of her face.

"..Be honest." He dips his head to a side for a moment. "If you answer."

Honesty.

Red curls hang loosely in the air as she lilts her head a bit in an unintentional loose mirror.

"...Well to say that that isn't some part of the reason would be a lie. But to say that it is the entirety of the reason would be as well. Much less a significant one, anymore."

There, she'd done it. Protectively took a warm hand in her mind to the parts of her that-ridiculously, felt exposed, stripped bare.

But this was her team, when it wasn't a purely SHIELD mission. These were the people who had stood by her and risked life and limb, as much for her immediate safety as for the elongated safety of the world. Just as she had for them.

Banner just stared at her. Then he gave a slow nod.

Her eyes slip back closed.

Distantly, she remembered the first time they'd met. He catching the Black Widow in a half truth and an outright lie, both in less than a minute.

And now look where they were.

Granted, if she was honest, she still couldn't say for sure whether that initial folly could be attributed to her underestimation, her trepidation towards him, or Bruce himself.

"...Why do we all have trouble accepting that we have friends now?" The words slip out before she even thinks them. The vocalized thought surprises her.

Bruce for his part just gave a huff, smiling lightly. "Beats me. We're just stuck in that gear I guess."

"Trust no one," she agrees, mildly rueful, adding to his words. He hums in relent.

"Good way to stay alive."

Those words, she finds herself musing. From him, the mild mannered doctor, so focused on helping people that he is willing to use his curse to do so... That he _got_ his "curse" in attempt to do so... It's a new perspective.

Again, she speaks before realizing.

"...it was."

...She is glad for it.

Bruce says nothing, and she doesn't look to him.

From the corner of her eye, though, she sees him smile.

Jarvis unmutes the TV for them as they've fallen silent. They start the routine just shy of its beginning.

* * *

"Drink," she says, pushing the glass of juice closer to Stark where he is seated on a stool and hunched with elbows on the breakfast bar, flicking him lightly on the forehead. Some kind of upscale, mango, guava, orangey mix she'd seen in the fridge before. Sometimes she wonders if he even _knows_ what regular orange juice is.

She doesn't stay to mind if he has any response, instead approaching Bruce as he finished checking Hawkeye over.

It was too dangerous-more often than not-for them to go to any public hospital, with the possibility of an extra contingent they hadn't managed to clean up still out there presenting an ever-present threat of collateral to helpless civilian occupants. And not a single one of them trusted the wound that was SHIELD not to be Hydra yet. So that possibility of their scattered, or often onboard quinjet, medical facilities, didn't sit lightly with any of them.

Tony was working on having a better, larger, and staffed med bay put on site, directly in the tower. Bruce was doing well enough anyway for now, making rounds. Checking over the Avengers that didn't practically have an instant healing factor. I.e., Thor and Cap, whose biggest problem at the moment seemed to be whether it was an appropriate time to eat when it wasn't certain that the mission was over. Hesitantly hovering in the kitchen area of the commons.

As much as he used to point out that he wasn't "the check-up, patch you up kind of doctor", he'd more than stepped up to the task as it had come up often enough. The concomitant first responder to Avengers involved crisis.

All the Avengers were scuffed and dirtied, but none too worse for wear.

Normally, a dirty bomb wouldn't be enough to have them on call.

But when gifteds were involved, and time was of the essence, times would become desperate.

They'd told her after that she'd nearly broken the man's arm.

She had hardly a recollection of the entire thing.

Not because she wasn't there. She was. She _remembered._ But she was, had felt, so detached from the entire thing. It was such muscle memory, such a redundancy, that she'd just let her body take over. Her mind must have blanked, as it did in the days of past. Cleansing itself completely, ignoring the task at hand, in order to retain sanity.

But that was hardly true, wasn't it? Nowadays, she had a cause. One she believed in, instead of one she was required to. If she was truly doing what was right, or what was best.

Nowadays, with her cause, her actions were just. There was no need for her own survival to justify them. There was no need to separate herself from the situation, to protect her mind.

It was a dirty bomb. They'd needed information. Time was of the essence.

...Right?

She truly did wonder if she had some sort of mental disorder. If finally the shattered shards of her self, finally the edges too sharp for her to collect and mend into a shape she somewhat liked, had themselves coalesced into one, in two separate sets. Time and again she tried to think of ways to bring it up to Bruce and ask him about it without him thinking she was referring to he and "the other guy." Realizing she'd missed a golden opportunity the other day with his question.

God, she missed her home of SHIELD. All the times, turning down a shrink eval, coming back to bite her.

At least, that's what she had to hold onto now, as being the reason. Her mental health. Not that the reason was the seemingly thinner and thinner line between mental health and Hydra brainwashing. Literal, utter, "Happy to comply." brainwashing, that made those close to you obsolete and endangered...

Echoes of a memory. The man shackled to a chair.

Instantly she could tell. That being in the bomb's radius, the man would be unaffected. Unmotivated to tell them anything. So the quinjet was hurtling away from the city. And the Black Widow was promising him tortures beyond his imagining, worse and more constant than what she was afflicting upon him, if he did not comply. Promised he'd live out his life in a pit of Hell so deep he would never see the sun again.

The man's facade did not break.

Though the drops of sweat, dilation of his pupils...

Natasha still remembered a time when this mask, this blank she fell into, was just...who she was. It wasn't different from her norm, because it _was_ her norm. If she'd had anyone who cared about her as a person, something other than just one of a number, maybe what she'd thought to be normal wouldn't have seemed so to her.

But maybe it truly was just who she was. Maybe there was no Natasha without a Black Widow.

Not a disassociation, or multi-personality disorder. Not some kind of weird switch they'd planted in her mind, that only they and she could flip. But just who she truly was. Wearing a facade for her fr-for, the Avengers.

Not for the first time, she wasn't sure what she feared more.

An hour passed, and Hill informed them that the CIA, FBI, and other gestalt of government agencies had swept the disaster-averted zone and were finally satisfied. To no one currently in the tower's surprise. They'd all come to trust Tony's judgments. When it came to technological things, at least.

Natasha wasted no time in heading for a shower then bed, past Steve and Thor who were beginning to collaborate on sandwiches.

Even being clean and worn out from the day's events didn't help her after settling into the covers however. Her mind just wouldn't quiet. Daggers and mirrors painted her eyelids. Remembering being at first desperate then afraid to leave the assassin home of her past, memories of realizing she was not normal, not acceptable in demeanor, in thinking, in _rights_ to the way of the world pressed away the possibility of sleep.

* * *

She wasn't sure why she was trying.

Green eyes opened to stare up at the ceiling. It wasn't as if she'd truly been sleeping. Barely dozing. The first time she'd woken up from actually sleep, Natasha had been oddly calm for the demons her eyes had been seeing moments before.

That didn't last of course.

Green eyes closed.

She forced herself to remain perfectly still. Ice prickled beneath her skin. Her hands pulled the covers around her more tightly.

Green eyes opened.

Green eyes closed.

A cold binding around her wrist. She draws her free arm under the duvet as well.

Suddenly her arms are restrained. There are intruders in the tower. Recent marks the Black Widow has taken, away from SHIELD, in reaching for some penance from her past.

They are leaving her, and she has to get out of the restraints. Or at least off of the floor. Natasha has to warn the others. She tries to speak, to hope Jarvis will hear. But the tower isn't just dark in her room, it is dark in its entirety. Somehow, despite Iron Man's word, promises dismissed as flamboyant lauds to his own genius. Powerless.

Distantly Natasha feels herself yank the covers off of her body. Remaining lying there for just a moment as she reminded herself that she was free, and reveled in the feeling. Her arms pulled her up then. Sitting up on top of the pillows, back against the headboard.

It wasn't long after, when she'd awakened again, this time with handgun in hand, that she gave up.

.

Sleeping pills were something they'd all tried at some point or another. For her, it was hit and miss. Sometimes, they lulled her into a medically induced sleep. Better, a dreamless one. But other times they just paralyzed her. Left her hyperaware of her surroundings, plunged her into dreams with no sensation of her body. Or both.

She didn't want to take that risk today. Already she was near terrored trembling. Whether she openly admitted that's what it was to herself or not.

But that left her with the decision of whether or not to leave the safety of her room. To risk showing her teammates weakness. To risk them having questions. She peered at the clock up on the wall. Three-thirteen in the morning shown back at her. She'd been attempting to sleep for half the night now.

So she padded out of the room. Not bothering with shoes. The different floors of the tower had a variety of textures. Tile, wood, carpet, ceramic. She'd never really paid attention to, bothered to notice, the choice. Tony's, or Pepper's, taste. She wasn't sure why her mind focused on it now.

At least, that's what she told herself.

Natasha first ventured to the main entrance. Or at least close to it. The first floor, while they could see out of it, it was highly secured, and could be tinted so that none could see in by one simple request to Jarvis, always had at least one person hanging around it. No matter the time. So while the lights were off (Tony flip-flopping yet again towards the concept of having the lower civilian levels of the tower be a twenty-four hour thing. At least a front desk.) and the windows she checked were currently one-way, there was still a small group gathered there. It couldn't have been more than four, five people tops. Three in a group, smoke coming from their midst as they quietly appeared to be conversing.

She knew they had to be Stark employees to be lingering so close. It wasn't unheard of or very uncommon for such to be working so late into night. Sleepless nights were just a common thing in labs. She also knew the cops would cruise by every once in a while, just to insure all was well at and around the most infamous building in the city. For all they could do if it wasn't, she thought sardonically.

Still, while the group seemed harmless enough, and she was a floor above them, Natasha wished that there was something better than glass separating she and the outside here. She could be almost certain that it was bulletproof. But it still left her wishing Tony's ego would take a break for just one moment.

.

Distant shadows of her earlier dream caressed at her mind; Natasha broke free before her assailants knew what was happening. Within seconds, a neck was snapped. She dodged in, kicking in a windpipe from below, taking out the legs of the last. She ran out of the room before the sharp crack of the man's head hitting the floor...

Natasha stood up from the lobby couch to shake off the dredges of sleeps. No sense in allowing it when the dream wouldn't allow it to be satisfying.

The pressing vision had her feet moving of their own accord however.

She knew it was a dream. But the possibility of it happening was very real. Her Avengers association wasn't exactly secret.

Her mind wouldn't accept that they were okay, alive, until she saw for herself.

.

Thor was a heavy sleeper. Inherently, she thought. When you were never in over your head, what reason did your instinct have for high alert? When nothing could hurt you? At least, nothing physically.

She supposed it was unfair to blanket him in that assessment. Inaccurate. None of them lived at the tower full time. Natasha herself. Never fully comfortable unless she had at least three other alias identities to fall back on. Sustaining them of course meant living elsewhere for any amount of time, at any time. Whenever Thor would leave for Asgard, when he returned, she had noticed he really was dead to the world in sleep for at least a few days afterward. But otherwise, his dozing had gotten lighter and lighter in the time that she'd known him.

She'd be humbling their contribution too much if she didn't attribute it to the rest of the Avengers at least somewhat. That he cared about them all, and was the most durable of them all, was no secret.

Tony was a heavy sleeper. Just because from the smell he'd taken her word to drink in the wrong direction before turning in for the night. Any other night, and it was fifty-fifty whether or not he would wake up at the slightest of noise.

She was never sure if she actually broke into the rooms, or if Jarvis just allowed her in. Passively wondering if she could outwit the AI if ever need be.

She'd never been caught by any of them thus far though, she thinks as she gingerly turns Tony's head to a side instead of the ceiling. Heading on to Bruce's room, who doesn't stir even as she deftly removes his glasses to place them at his bedside.

Clint, she enter's room, but doesn't approach. Despite knowing her longest, he's still no exception more often than not. For such a trained eye, hearing-aids in or out didn't seem to sway his luck for better or worse with this. Luck, because sneaking up on him had become almost a game between them. Often amusement for her, endless griefing on his end.

She might've woken him just to point out she'd been undetected, had she not wanted him to rest tonight. Had her mood not been so somber. Her mind not tumulting.

Hell, right now it was a lie to say she hadn't sank to questioning if he was Hydra. At least, for a moment, that's where her mind dares.

It wasn't that she didn't trust the others. Them _all_ she thinks as she pads out. Because she did. They were a team. Surrendering some amount of trust was required. Necessary.

In this case, on this night, it was because she knew she still couldn't bring herself to fully trust them.

In this case, on this night, it was because she knew they didn't trust _her._ Regardless.

Not that she could truly blame them.

Even... A pang crossed her heart. Even Fury hadn't trusted her. Clint had extended the hand, countercalled a shot to open a door of opportunity. But in the end of course, it had been Fury's call to make. Fury's decision to allow her. The chance to change. She thought she had changed.

Still, _still_ , he'd chosen to trust Steve, a person he'd known on paper a lot longer than he'd known in person. For all Steve's strengths and service, brilliance of mind, he was no spy. He cared too much about too much...everything.

" _You would have done the same thing."_

She knew. She _still_ knows.

It's _still_ part of the problem.

She wanted to find Fury. Demand answers. Demand he take this seed of doubt he'd planted away from her mind. Scream and shout. Demand to know why the government hadn't taken her prisoner yet. It had been far from her mind to think that her little speech would sway them from the idea. Not for this long. And if the Avengers or Fury were keeping them off of her, that just made it all the more irritating. What did they even know of her, to think she was worth keeping around? That she wouldn't be a liability?

After D.C., they had every means right and motive to find out everything about her. It was only before it that she was the one who had orchestrated what the team did and didn't know about her after all. Steve had outright told her, just hours before Hydra had revealed itself and attempted to kill them, that he didn't know who she really was.

And it was funny, now she thought of it. Because just hours later, neither did she.

An organization that, even when not her usual calm, even in the heat of an argument, like the one held between all the Avengers and Fury in the hellicarrier high in the air, she'd defended. The scepter's aura's influence on that particular argument bedamned. That wasn't the only time she'd defended SHIELD to any of them.

Natasha really couldn't understand why Steve hadn't just left her for dead after New Jersey and Zolov. Save her from the missiles sure, but at least interrogate her afterward, before bringing her along to his improvised safehouse.

To this day, she still wasn't certain what she'd done to earn a place in his trust.

It was hard not to trust him back.

Which was probably why, she thought, after a few minutes of sitting backwards in the chair at his art desk, simply watching him, her body moved and carefully laid down next to him. She couldn't help it. Her mind needed to be this close. It wasn't enough to see his chest rising and falling. To faintly hear his breaths.

Steve wore his heart on his sleeve.

She'd never been good at heart over head. Her head, her mind, she had full control. Her heart, it would do whatever it wished. She could silence it, ignore it, make tactical, efficient instead of emotional judgments.

She remembered that as a child, the madame would go down the line. Analyzing her Widows as an army commander would soldiers. Even though their causes were rarely as just. Even though they were mercenaries.

Natasha would pass the inspection only some of the time. It was easy, in the beginning. No matter how sharp a blade or what manner of handgun or how close the woman held it to her face, the woman would always move on satisfied.

She traced the texture of the duvet and covers beneath her with a finger, watching as blonde strands were unconsciously scratched for a moment in sleep by the fingers they were rested on. Natasha tried to remember when exactly she'd started failing these tests. Maybe it had been a mission, a petty buyer that had wandered in. One too many reverse interrogations gone wrong. One too many innocents killed.

She wondered if the unconscious reactions had been for herself, or empathy. Regret.

Maybe it was just her humanity coming through for the first time.

Rearing its head.

He stirred, blue eyes fluttering open.

They lock onto hers. Which simply stare back.

He jumps.

As with any of the others, save perhaps Tony, being this close was dangerous. She knew. One wrong move, and she could be reflexively snapped like a twig with a motion that to him was a twitch.

His eyes are suddenly alert. But he doesn't move.

Somewhere deep in her thoughts it occurs to her that, adapt as he may to the twenty-first century, Steve couldn't kick some old fashioned ideals. Really, it wasn't even just an old fashion ideal to many. Though she didn't mean anything by it, lost in thoughts which had guided her practically subconscious actions, here she was lying in bed with him.

Whoops.

He stared at her. To his credit, that doesn't present itself as the issue of his confusion. Biting back the dumbfounded "Uh..." that tried past his lips. "What's wrong?"

Natasha didn't answer. Didn't move.

Steve gave her a quick once-over. "Are you hurt?"

Still no response. "Tasha..."

Lithe fingers reached out. Twisting a lock in the front of his hair about themselves.

"Go to sleep..," she says quietly.

Steve's brow drew, and he examined her closely this time. She saw his eyes land on her hand and linger there, and that was when she remembered the gun. Reflexively, absentmindedly, she tensed a bit.

But blue eyes just met hers. A hand came to her cheek. Slowly, and hovering there for a second. Making contact when she did nothing but continue to stare back at his eyes. Ever wrinkled with worry, only this time, knowingly seen.

"It's okay," he matched her tone. He reached just as tenderly for the gun. Her hand tensed, but at the warm contact, she felt the Black Widow melt away some, and become just Natasha again. Vulnerable but guarded, strong but brittle.

She didn't remember him taking it, lost in the comfort of his eyes, but she heard the soft contact as the gun was set on the nightstand, felt the sheet brush over her cheek as he withdrew his arm from reaching over her shoulder.

Relying on others, was weakness.

But she didn't rely on them, the same voice reasoned to her conscience. They helped. Being helped was not being weak. She could do it on her own. She had no doubt of this.

But, thought Natasha, closing her own eyes as Steve didn't for a moment drop the gaze after disarming her, curling her head into his side. Allowing him to rest his arm atop her shoulder. Having help, having comfort..it could never be a bad thing.

Bringing in others, was selfish.

They could hold their own, she reasoned. And it wouldn't even come to that. Her team stood taller than the shadows dared to loom. If they wanted to help, who was she to stop them. That she even thought she _could_.

It didn't matter. If it came to it, she would fight back any of her demons if they even considered going after her team.

The steady thump of Steve's heart was her lullaby tonight. Knowing someone who trusted her, and who she trusted in return, was alive and well. Despite what the ghosts of her past could say.

* * *

She'd _been_ out.

After SHIELD had fallen, after fielding questions from government agencies and military officials, their superiors and _their_ superiors about what had happened-questions she'd answered in the stead of a broken SHIELD? of the Avengers?-she'd made her way off of the radar.

As Natasha made her way to the commons floor kitchen, the thoughts wouldn't stop plaguing her. Judging by the lack of skyline she could see out of the window, along with the headlights, street lights, and windows that were stars for the city, she guessed it was some ungodly hour. The microwave read just after two in the morning when it came into her line of sight.

Why had she come back... She felt the steely, analyzing part of her mind shut down everything else, plucking a teabag from a cabinet into a cup of water without having to think. The cup blasphemously into the microwave as she didn't want to wait for a kettle.

Why...

Clint had found her, she remembered, sure.

She'd been out, originally shopping for curtains that didn't smell like musty mildew. New aliases long since developed.

"There was never a saint with red hair."

She shot him a tired look, corner of her lips drawn down in the slightest where she was seated, bag laden, in the food court. "Thanks. I feel a lot better."

Barton's face had stayed as placid as ever, though he arched a brow to accompany the faint smile.

"Come on, what's got you?"

She leaned back, crossing her arms.

"How's the brain holding up?"

His smile faded, and he looked up slowly. "Ah. That's the current mood. Got it. Touché."

Clint grunted as he sat in the opposite chair. "Every time the asshole's name comes up the big guy still gets that look in his eye sometimes when he tries not to."

Natasha's look softened and grimaced at once somehow. "It was his baby brother. Psycopath or not."

The man snorted outright at that one, sitting up in his chair. "Forgive me if _my_ experience with brotherly love doesn't draw me in per your intention." He pulls out his wallet and opens it, flipping through. "Not to mention _their_ record's pretty shot."

The redhead snorted now too. "Yeah. I still can't believe he did anything as unselfish as what killed him."

"Don't tell me you believe for a second that it wasn't? Selfish? At least an attempt for good graces that went wrong?"

"Well no, not really. But he's dead."

Clint leaned forward. "And may he stay that way." He rose, stretching his creaking joints. "And I think he was a sociopath."

"Psychopath."

His look turned serious, yet softened.

"Don't run away, Tasha."

Black Widow doesn't answer. And though she wasn't looking at Clint in the first place, she inclines her head slightly. A light squeeze on her shoulder, and she watched his feet leave.

Said feet stopped at the back of the line of a restaurant and she realizes his double meaning. Even if she hadn't been making to leave at his departure.

He comes back food in hand and tears into the sandwich on the tray he sets down. Whatever it is prickles the inside of her nose and would surely make her eyes water too were she to inhale deeply enough.

He stays quiet as he eats. With only a few short "mm's" of approval at the sandwich breaking the silence. She knows the silence is the offer to clear her mind. But she too stays silent. Snagging a steak fry.

Of course, her silence alone gives him all he needs. So it doesn't matter.

She's focused on her thoughts again anyway, because of his greeting.

She remembers Russia, a long time before... Remembers sitting in a church. Natasha hardly remembered entering it. Her motions were so...distant. Her body just going where her legs had carried her. The chapels of Slovakia were large and engrossing, ornate.

She honestly couldn't remember how long she had sat there. Staring past the empty pews to the altar at the front. The Black Widow had never been very religious. Mostly knew of saints as information to converse and gain trust, feign sincerity.

But remembers she hadn't moved until she saw the shadow of someone approaching a doorway into the chapel.

The priest had walked from the front to the back. Noticed the handprint of blood with a quiet intake of air. From her place on the ledge above him where he never thought to look as his wide eyes scanned the room, wedged between a sculpture and the wall, she watched him frozen in his place.

Until a moment later, where he sank down onto his knees in front of the seat where she had been. Marking from his forehead to chest in sign.

" _It is never too late for those who have committed the unspeakable, to turn a branch anew..._ "

Again, she was barely religious. She knew the only reason those words she could still remember to this day were because of the lost state she'd been in. She knew the likely only reason for Clint's greeting was that it was literally a saying from her homeland he used as a playful jab. (One she'd heard many times, dripping from the mouths of both targets and employees, a polite laugh in response...) When already looking for guidance, a sign, answers, and it comes along and pushes you down a path you had merely taken a few timid steps in order to stare down... The same reason she'd so easily accepted Barton's offer when he'd eventually come for her. To kill her.

But still...

Truth _is_ a matter of circumstance. It's not all things, to...

"Hey." A gentle grip rested on her hand, where it was rested on the tabletop. She looks up at him.

"You're a good person, Nat."

Normally, at such a blunt, much less cliché statement, she would have scoffed humorously and dismissed him. But today, her mind wrapped around it. Green eyes looked up to brown, gauging without even thinking. Green eyes clouded by a fog of doubt.

"Don't shut us out. You don't... ...Don't lock yourself in with your demons."

She'd given a quiet, airy snort. Though with barely any humor. "Us..." Wasn't certain that she'd repeated the word aloud. Knew he wasn't referring to just she and he. Knew she'd long since given up abandoning their bond.

Though she was curious, having thought her every trail was covered and untraceable, she didn't bother asking him how he'd found her. Maybe it was best that he had.

Natasha would be lying if she said she hadn't missed the distraction of Stark's humor. Thor's infectious light. Bruce's serenity and snark. Steve's guidance.

The microwave dinged, bringing her back for a moment. In which her mind wondered if she had removed the paper tag and thus staple from the tea bag string, before realizing that no fire currently meant she had. She knew she was abusing the upscale tea, denying it's full potential in preparation method. Passively she wondered if it was Bruce's.

Her team.

Her present. Not her past.

Her friends. Not her ghosts.

Was she running from them, or for them?

With SHIELD _gone..._

"Natasha...?"

Was she a threat, or an asset?

She looked up to the blue eyes. Feigning an air of lightness. Pushing tumult from her own eyes.

With SHIELD gone, who was she?

"Si mon capitan?" she smiled.

Who _was she?_

She realized Steve's expression as he reached out to her with a flinch at the motion. Though it was slow and measured.

A warm finger pressed under her eye gently.

That was when she felt the tear hit her lip, and realized why he was reaching for her.

Every curse in every language she knew flew through her mind.

She pulled away from him quickly, rubbing her eye. "There's just...something in it..." The oldest excuse in the book.

But her guard was down around this man, and she could think of nothing better. Nothing but biting words and caustic excuses.

She'd never bring herself to aim those at him.

"I will ignore that, and the sleepless butchering of Spanish and French, in favor.."

She stares as he offers an arm.

"C'mon. We're going out."

Needless to say, Natasha was quite confused when she looked up to him.

"What?"

Steve smiled down their foot of height difference. "You and I. A date between friends."

He'd taken her arm and was guiding her to the elevator. Even despite her knit tight brow, above her still moist eyes.

"I don't-"

"You like to get dolled up, though you try to hide it." Moments of him speaking like this reminded her of the often forgotten fact that the gentle blue eyed powerhouse was from the often rough streets of nineteen-fifties Brooklyn. "I'll even let you pick out what I wear too. We'll go to a nice restaurant, somewhere dim where no one will pay us any mind. We'll have a night like regular people do."

 _Feel normal._

Already she could feel her storm of thoughts settling at the concept. Captain America wasn't making it easy for the rain, she relented.

Natasha grinned slightly. "Steven, it's three AM."

"As I understand it, this is the city that never sleeps."

She snorted outright humorously at that.

"'As you understand it?' Pretty sure it was pretty much like that in your day too, old man."

He gives an innocent shrug and head lilt that has her shaking her head amicably. Despite Tony's and admittedly, sometimes everyone else's teasing, Captain America learned the twenty-first century fast and well. So-

Natasha was rubbing her eye, a smile in place on her countenance.

"'Dolled up.' You have to talk like that the entire night and we've got a deal."

Steve smiled happily back. Walking forward to gently guide her to her feet by an elbow. "Well," he said thoughtfully as they made their way to the elevator. "I could try. It's been a couple years since I've been in the time where anyone would call me an all wet pill, so I'm behind the grind. But I'll try not to be a curve."

"-Nevermind."


End file.
